The Year of the Gun

by Chris Nickson

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked eventually. A cold draught whistled through the doors; her legs were freezing.

  ‘RAF base,’ he answered. ‘Church Fenton. A bunch of our guys are training there.’

  By the time they arrived she was glad just to be out of the vehicle and walking around, working some life and warmth back into her knee. The ride had been bumpy and uncomfortable; it made her appreciate the smoothness of the Humber. Jeeps and US Army lorries were parked everywhere. Music blared from a large Nissen hut, the sound of a big band.

  As Ellison opened the door for her, the noise surrounded her in a roar. The musicians were crammed together on a platform, a blare of brass and the hard kick of drums. Tables had been packed around the edges of the hut, leaving a large dance floor.

  Plenty of couples were moving around. American servicemen, all ranks, and with them, young women dressed to the nines or in their best uniforms. And all of them smiling, happy, glad to be here, now, not even thinking what the future might hold.

  It was hot, the air heavy with tobacco and sweat, hair oil, perfume, and the smell of food. Lottie glanced around. A buffet of some kind had been set up, and next to it a bar, in front of a group of pin-up pictures on the wall. The rumours were right, she thought; the Yanks did their troops proud, everything was laid on.

  Ellison commandeered a table, pulling rank on a corporal with a face full of freckles, and held the chair while she sat.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ His mouth was close enough to her ear to feel the warmth of his breath.

  ‘Would they have a G and T?’ Lottie asked. He looked at her, not understanding. ‘Gin and tonic.’

  ‘I’ll find out.’

  While he was gone she gazed at the dancers. They were mostly couples holding each other and shuffling round in time to the music. But a few had style; they’d had lessons, felt the rhythm naturally and relished the chance to show it.

  He returned balancing two glasses. She lifted hers in a toast, hearing a tinkle.

  ‘Ice?’

  He grinned. ‘You’re in America now. We use ice. And there’s pizza if you’re hungry.’

  Pizza? She had no idea what that was; at the moment she didn’t care. The band was playing up a storm and the air crackled with pleasure and a sense of wildness. It was nothing like the dances she used to go to with Geoff. Here there was a thrilling sense that anything might happen.

  The musicians and singers all wore army uniforms, even the young woman with pale skin and black hair who waited for her turn at the microphone.

  ‘Do you want to dance?’ Ellison almost had to shout over the music. Lottie shook her head. She’d sit, look after her knee and leave all the jitterbugging and jiving to the young. But she couldn’t help tapping her feet.

  A few officers came up to Ellison, saying hello and shaking his hand. He was enjoying himself, sipping on his beer and smoking, nodding in time with the music, then he joined every other voice in the place, yelling out ‘Pennsylvania 6-5000’ during the pause in the melody.

  For once, he looked relaxed. Carefree. She could imagine him like this, off-duty in Seattle, maybe at one of the baseball games he enjoyed in the summer. He applauded loudly at the end of every song, smiling as the female singer made Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree into a warning for the man duetting with her.

  A moment’s hush, then the drums started to beat a kind of rhythm she’d never heard before. It felt primal, exciting. Without even realising, she drew in a breath. The horns started, a raw, dirty roar she felt in her stomach.

  Out on the dance floor, couples had formed a circle. In the middle a GI and his blonde WAAF date were already lost in the music, dancing so their hands barely touched. She had her jacket off, tie tucked into her shirt, eyes closed and a look of bliss on her face. She moved, just carried by the sound, no pattern. He leapt and jumped, curly hair bouncing. It was as if the music was pumping directly into their bodies.

  The relentless drumming continued, the instrumentalists taking solos – trumpet, trombone, clarinet, saxophone – and the dancers kept moving, never slowing, not even aware of the rest of the world around them.

  Then finally it ended. Without a word, the pair of them collapsed into each other’s arms, faces flushed, hair soaked with sweat. The crowd clapped, as much for them as the band, and she joined in.

  A quick pause for breath as the drummer took a bow.

  ‘What on earth was that?’ Lottie asked.

  ‘It’s called Sing Sing Sing,’ Ellison told her. His eyes were shining. ‘Always sends the dancers wild. I got to say, though, that was really something.’

  The reeds struck up a slow, sweet melody. She knew it immediately: Imagination. The introduction built, and as the vocalist started the first line, she couldn’t help singing softly along.

  Ellison must have seen her. He reached out, took her hand and gestured to the dance floor. Lottie allowed herself to be led, feeling his arms lightly around her, looking up into his face as they muddled their way around, trying not to stand on each other’s feet. She was smiling, wrapped in the song, enjoying these few moments. But life wasn’t going to be like the lyric: no gentle touch, she told herself. No kissing, and no going round willy-nilly.

  The final verse was beginning when she became aware of someone standing there. Ellison halted, letting go of her. A private, leaning forward and talking quietly into the captain’s ear, receiving a nod. The last notes of the song were hanging in the air as he said, ‘I’m really sorry, something’s happened. I’m going to have to go. I’ll take you home.’

  He helped her into her coat and hurriedly drained the last of his beer. Going through the door, she was astonished to still see daylight, all the noise and the music suddenly muffled behind them. Surely she’d been in there for hours?

  Climbing into the Jeep she looked back over her shoulder. By the corner of the hut a couple held each other, lost in a kiss. The tip of a cigarette glowed somewhere in the shadows.

  A bitter wind whistled across the wide space of the aerodrome. By the control tower, the windsock was at full stretch. No aircraft; they must all be in the hangars.

  ‘I really am sorry,’ Ellison said. He glanced across at her. ‘You were just starting to have fun, too.’

  ‘It was all wonderful,’ she told him honestly. ‘I loved it. But the war comes first.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ But he didn’t say why he needed to return so urgently and she knew better than to ask.

  ‘Del Vecchio must be a good entertainments officer,’ she said.

  ‘One of the best I’ve seen. He takes care of all the details. Band, drinks, food, getting the place set up. The whole shebang.’

  Cold air brought her back to reality. The roads were empty and he made good time. The closer they came to Leeds, the city’s chimneys rising like fingers, the more the dance seemed like a strange dream, an interlude from life.

  Dusk was deepening when he parked outside her house. He left the motor idling.

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled at him, pleasure in her eyes. ‘I can’t remember when I enjoyed something so much.’ She meant it; it had been an experience, bold, brash, overwhelming and joyful.

  From the look on his face she could tell what was coming. Lottie didn’t turn as she felt his lips lightly on hers. But she didn’t surrender to the kiss, either. Her body tensed. He seemed to understand, pulling back after a moment.

  ‘I do like you, Cliff,’ she said. ‘But…’

  ‘I know. You made it clear enough from the beginning. Honestly, it’s fine. Sorry. I guess I got a little carried away.’

  She stood on the verge, watching as he drove off.

  ‘You look happy,’ McMillan said as she walked into the office on Monday morning.

  She still felt the wave of indulgence from the dance. A luxury. The band played on in her head; she could see the joy of the dancers if she closed her eyes. The only nagging reality was a twinge in her knee.

  Lottie had spent the evening quietly, ea
ting spam and chips in front of the fire, the American Forces’ Network on the radio, big bands crackling out of the speaker to keep the mood of the afternoon alive.

  Even putting on her uniform this morning, the starched white shirt and black tie, then walking to the bus stop, couldn’t dampen her spirits.

  ‘Good,’ she answered. ‘Did you manage a day off yesterday?’

  ‘Part of one.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘There was a possible sighting of Hilliard, so I had to come in. Turned out to be nothing.’

  ‘There’s still no word?’

  ‘Not since his escape at the Star and Garter.’ He didn’t mean it as a reproach but Lottie felt herself blush; that still seemed like her fault. ‘He’s keeping his head down. Someone must be helping him.’ McMillan raised his eyes to look at her. ‘Time to look at all his friends and family and all the places he’s lived again. Do you have the list?’

  It was impossible to tell how exhaustive it was, but everyone on the list had been visited at least once.

  ‘And we won’t use the Specials this time,’ he added.

  It took time to arrange, checking with Andrews and co-ordinating the plain clothes officers. Then with the division inspector in charge of the uniforms at Millgarth. He’d need to ring the other divisions and arrange for men from there.

  They’d manage to settle on a time – noon. Police officers would visit all the people on the list then. No opportunity for word to pass from one to the other. For the next half hour Lottie was busy making telephone calls to ensure everyone had the proper information. Finally, when she rang through for the umpteenth outside line of the morning, Helen at the switchboard said, ‘You must have some big op going on. Is CID going to win the war?’

  ‘That’s tomorrow,’ Lottie told her. ‘Just a small push today.’

  ‘Casablanca was good on Saturday, wasn’t it?’ Without waiting for an answer, she continued, ‘Did you do much yesterday?’

  ‘Not really. Some digging in the vegetable patch.’ It was the truth. Just not all of it. But she didn’t need everyone knowing her business.

  Half-past eleven. She brought two cups of tea from the canteen. Not a biscuit to be found.

  ‘Are you going out on any of the visits?’

  McMillan sat back in his chair, pulling out a cigarette packet. ‘I’d love to. But I’d better stay here and be ready.’ He eyed her curiously. ‘Why, were you hoping for some action? That knee of yours must be better.’

  ‘I did some gardening yesterday. Good exercise.’

  ‘If you say so,’ he said doubtfully.

  The phone rang just as she sat down at her desk. Someone who’d lost the information, probably, or checking details.

  ‘Hi.’

  No need to ask who it was. Lottie gently closed the door to her office.

  ‘Thank you again for yesterday,’ she said. ‘It was absolutely marvellous.’

  ‘Really?’ He sounded surprised. ‘Good, I wanted you to enjoy it. I just wish it could have gone on longer.’ She waited but he said no more about why he’d been called away. ‘Listen, I have to see someone in town and I wondered if I could buy you lunch.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Cliff. We’ve got a bit of flap going on.’

  ‘Anything important?’ She could hear the disappointment in his voice.

  ‘A big sweep for Hilliard.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess that takes precedence. Another time?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The phone calls started in earnest at five past twelve. She’d made a chart and as the men gave their quick reports, ticked off each address. Nothing, no one at home. House empty, all the furniture gone. The list went on. One place had apparently been destroyed by an air raid in 1940. That was odd; she queried the address and discovered the constable had gone to Rathbone Terrace instead of Road.

  By half past she’d heard from almost everyone. Only three left. Her ear felt hot from keeping the receiver jammed against it.

  ‘Well?’ McMillan stood in the doorway. She pushed her chart across the desk.

  ‘No luck so far.’ She pointed at the three spaces. ‘We’re still waiting on those.’

  The telephone rang again. Lottie listened for a moment.

  ‘Right. Thank you. No, just carry on.’

  She crossed off one more address. The last two were taking their time. Did that mean they’d found something? She looked up at McMillan’s face. Lost in thought. They waited, not speaking; there didn’t seem to be anything worth saying at the moment.

  The telephone bell made her jump.

  ‘Yes, I see. No, thank you.’

  Another ticked off. Just one remaining. They’d had thirty-five minutes to search. It was out past Headingley, not too far from the Castle Grove HQ where the Americans worked.

  ‘Do you want to go out there?’ Lottie asked.

  He shook his head and lit a Four Square. ‘We’ll give them a little longer,’ he answered through the smoke. ‘Maybe they can’t find a police box.’

  By one o’clock he was pacing so hard he was wearing grooves in the lino.

  ‘Come on,’ she said finally, standing and reaching for her greatcoat. ‘Let’s go and take a look.’

  As she drove she could feel the tension. What were they going to find? There had to be something after all this time. It was a respectable address, in shouting distance of the Cottage Road cinema. A stone through-terrace, the roses in the tiny front garden neatly pruned back.

  No sign of the constables who’d been sent out here. McMillan knocked on the front door. The sound of feet moving slowly along the hall inside. The drawing back of a chain and a bolt. Lottie stood back. A lock clicked and a woman stood there, blinking in the daylight. She was short, barely five feet tall, grey hair neat, peering up at them through a pair of glasses.

  The cut of her woollen dress was dated, but on someone older that hardly mattered. It was good quality, Lottie could see that, elegant but not quite top drawer; it must have come from Schofield’s or Matthias Robinson, she decided, not Marshall and Snelgrove. But the tattered slippers on the woman’s feet ruined the elegant effect.

  McMillan raised his hat and the woman softened at the gesture. She was the type to value politeness; he’d judged that well.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you. I’m Detective Chief Super-intendent McMillan with Leeds Police.’ He produced his warrant card and gave her time to study it. ‘Have any constables been here?’

  ‘No,’ she answered, confusion on her face. ‘Why would they have come here?’

  ‘We’re looking for a man named Hilliard. According to our records, he used to live here.’

  ‘If he did, it’s not been since 1938,’ she told him tartly. ‘We bought the house then.’

  Old information. It happened. A waste of their time.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lottie said with a gentle smile. ‘I hope you understand.’

  ‘Of course.’ The woman gazed at McMillan. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you.’

  ‘Just a mistake.’ Another tip of his hat and they left, the wooden gate clattering behind them.

  ‘Still doesn’t answer the question, does it?’ he asked as she unlocked the Humber.

  ‘No,’ she agreed. Why hadn’t any coppers called to ask about Hilliard? Everything had been clear enough.

  ‘If they decided to ignore the order, I’ll give them a rocket that’ll send them into the next century.’

  ‘Where now?’

  McMillan thought for a second. ‘Go down to Meanwood.’

  When he came back from the shop he placed a brown paper parcel on the passenger seat and gave her a wink. Lottie raised an eyebrow.

  ‘My friend the butcher was feeling generous,’ McMillan said. ‘I thought you might like some.’

  ‘I won’t say no. Thank you.’

  ‘Millgarth,’ he decided. ‘Let’s see if we can find these bobbies.’

  The constables had been called to an accident on the Ring Road. No one dead, but three taken to hospital, all th
e witness statements to take and wait until the damaged vehicles were hauled away. They’d simply been doing their duty.

  Lottie looked at the list on her desk and put a tick beside the final address. They’d come away with nothing from the operation. Hilliard was still out there, still armed, still deadly.

  She raised the window and placed the package of meat on the ledge outside. Definitely cold enough to keep it fresh until she went home. She’d grown to enjoy the little extras McMillan passed on to her. Perks, he called them. Sweeteners. Always a surprise, and completely illegal. But Lottie knew she’d ignore that when she sat down to eat. No guilt.

  Across the hall she could hear McMillan on the phone, snapping out questions, then the harsh jangle as he dropped the receiver back on to the instrument.

  ‘We’re going back out,’ he shouted.

  Lottie didn’t know Swinnow well; it was a part of Leeds she’d rarely visited. But she followed the Stanningley Road until she came to a cluster of vehicles parked by a railway embankment. She recognised the pathologist’s car and the coroner’s unmarked black van. This had to be the place.

  All McMillan had told her was they had a dead body.

  ‘Not a woman,’ he added when she stared at him.

  A uniformed copper stood guard, coming smartly to attention and saluting as he recognised the Chief Superintendent. A few yards away, Inspector Andrews stood and gazed down the steep bank towards the tracks. DC Smith was making notes as he talked to an old man walking a mongrel. The animal kept glancing up impatiently at its owner and pulling gently at its lead.

  A long rope had been tied to a tree, the only way for men to make their way to the bottom on the cut. The doctor was already there, bent over a corpse. Ten yards away, the coroner’s men waited and smoked, the canvas stretcher rolled up tightly. Ted from Police Evidence was taking photographs.

  Lottie watched as McMillan finished his conversation with the inspector then began his slow descent to the body, hand over hand down the rope. She could see the strain on his face, the veins bulging on his neck. For God’s sake, she thought, he was too old to be doing that; but saying it would have been a waste of breath. She knew how he worked; he needed to see for himself. And in his mind he probably still believed he was twenty.